


Bowling Pins

by smellyleaf



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF, usa swimming
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smellyleaf/pseuds/smellyleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Title</strong>: Bowling Pins<br/>
<strong>Pairing</strong>: MPhelps/RLochte;<br/>
<strong>Fandom</strong>: RPF ;<br/>
<strong>Rating</strong>: M<br/>
<strong>Warnings</strong>: Real person fiction; Real person slash;<br/>
<strong>Summary</strong>: Did he set it all up just to knock him down?<br/>
<strong>Notes</strong>: 1289 words! Fill for a prompt by tellmelittlelie for my 200 member form! Yay!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bowling Pins

**THIS WORK WAS IMPORTED FROM SMELLYFIC.LIVEJOURNAL.COM]**

The evening starts out exactly as planned, and the stage is set.

  


He picks Ryan up from out front of the hotel at 9:00, and they go eat a late dinner at a very nice table with a view. Ryan orders something neither of them can pronounce and Michael has the chicken. He insists on paying, Ryan hems and haws goodnaturedly about it, and then they order doubles on the drinks and a piece of chocolate cake to share.

  


One spoon.

  


Michael knows he's getting some when Ryan knocks his drink back and swipes his finger directly through the chocolate icing.

  


"Here," Michael says, watching the way Ryan sucks the chocolate off, "Use the spoon."

  


Ryan glances over at him, and his blue eyes look more black in the shadowy darkness of the restaurant. He smiles slowly, peach sunrise over a white sky, and then he glances down at Michael's lips and says, "Why don't you get it to go?"

  


Nearly a half hour later, Ryan is stripping down to his boxers in Michael's immaculate living room and Michael is watching from the bar, where he's busy mixing them each a vodka tonic.

  


"Make mine strong," Ryan says, pushing a hand back through his short hair like he's forgotten there are no curls to shove away.

  


"I always do," Michael says with a smile, slicing a fresh lime because he knows Ryan will only complain if he doesn't. Then he delivers the drink to the living room, glancing down to admire Ryan's maroon silk boxers.

  


"They were the only ones clean," Ryan snaps, taking the drink and downing half of it in one large gulp, "Stop staring."

  


"No," Michael reaches out to cup Ryan through his underwear, marveling at the feel of silk sliding over that smooth skin.

  


Ryan reaches for Michael's belt, "C'mon, I don't want to be the only one naked. . ."

  


"You're not naked." Michael says, taking a swallow of his drink as he watches Ryan unbuckle his belt.

  


"I will be."

  


\- - -

  


It's a marathon kind of night, and Michael ends up using the entire lime in their drinks, slicing it on the bedside table.

  


Ryan has the radio playing loud, and he sings along to the songs while they take a shot break. The world is swaying in and out of focus pleasantly, and Michael thoughtfully licks a dripping line of precum off the underside of Ryan's dick, watching him suck juice out of a lime sliver.

  


Ryan's legs fall open and, smiling like the wolf in sheep's clothing, Michael takes him into his mouth. Ryan's moan is deep and satisfying, and his fingers curl down into the short hairs on the back of Michael's head.

  


Michael pulls back just enough to mumble against the side of Ryan's dick, "Take a shot."

  


Ryan is obedient, and he does exactly as Michael asks, shivering as Michael's nails drag down his inner thigh. He sets the nearly empty bottle down with a clunk and tugs on Michael's ear, "C'mere."

  


Michael sits up and their lips meet clumsily, a clash of teeth that is not exactly pleasant. Michael doesn't mind though, and he pulls away enough to smile at Ryan.

  


There's no need for explanations. Ryan lays back against the pillows with a grunt and Michael slides forward between his thighs. He's not sure how long they've been at it, on and off, but the sky is turning grey outside and Ryan moans when Michael enters him like he hasn't been getting fucked all night.

  


"You're such a slut," Michael mumbles against Ryan's throat, and then he starts moving his hips.

  


The radio is loud, but Ryan is louder, and Michael leans into him so that Ryan can press his mouth into his shoulder. That muffles some of the sound, but not much. Michael is very nearly past caring, eyes rolling back in his head as Ryan tightens around him.

  


"Fuck," Michael groans, and slaps his palm to the wall. Ryan's body starts shivering and his muscles tense and Michael can only close his eyes and enjoy the sensation of Ryan Lochte cumming, watching in fascination as Ryan's own cum pools around his belly button.

  


Ryan is muttering something repeatedly into Michael's shoulder, but Michael doesn't care. Using his hand on the wall as leverage, he pushes himself upright and slides his hands up under Ryan's thighs to lift his legs.

  


Then his brain tunes in to what Ryan is saying.

  


"Shit, fuck, damn," Ryan is mumbling, eyes closed, still twitching from his orgasm, "Fuck, I love you, shit."

  


And all of that broadcasts loud and clear into Michael Phelps' brain and he freezes, staring down.

  


Ryan is a little drunk and he lays there for almost an entire minute before he opens his eyes and looks up at Michael, "Are you done already?" He glances down at where their bodies are connected, brow furrowed because of course he's thinking that he didn't feel it.

  


Michael's body floods hot and he looks away, bracing all his weight on the hand on the wall. He pants and he forgets to nod and then he realizes it's too late to nod. Now it's awkward.

  


Ryan laughs, a rumble that stirs somewhere deep in Michael's belly, and says, "You're drunk."

  


Michael looks out at the grey not-light of a morning in Baltimore and again, he doesn't answer. His tongue feels large and swollen in his mouth, his throat is dry and scratchy, he has forgotten most of the English language all at once. There is absolutely nothing that he can say.

  


"Hello? Earth to Mikey," Ryan reaches up and raps his knuckles on Michael's forehead lightly, like he's knocking on a door, "Is there anyone in there?"

  


Suddenly Michael can speak, and it's not good. "Stop," He snaps, and he slaps Ryan's arm away and pulls out of him in one motion.

  


Ryan looks hurt, but only for a second. Then he looks away, glancing over at the bottle of vodka, "Sorry, dude. Maybe I'm too drunk right now."

  


"You need to leave," Michael snaps, and he can't stop snapping at Ryan, why can't he? His skin feels too hot and too tight, and he wants to rip it off and run away from it, and escape this situation and this room and. . . this.

  


"Huh?" Ryan blinks up at him.

  


 The cum on his stomach is drying and Michael can't look at him anymore. He climbs off the bed and walks to the dresser, suddenly feeling sober, to put some clothes on.

  


Ryan swallows, Michael can hear the audible click in his throat.

  


"I can't do this anymore," Michael says, and he feels kind of like it's a dream and he's watching it from above, "I. . . can't do this. . . if you have feelings. Because I don't."

  


Understanding lights in Ryan's eyes, and then deep shame. It's not something to be ashamed of, but at the moment, he is. His tan skin flushes with a red undertone and he ducks his head. There is a painful, gnarled silence.

  


Ryan speaks like the words are ripped from his throat, "Alright. Okay. I can respect that. Just let me call a cab."

  


Michael stares at his own reflection in the mirror over the dresser, listening to the sounds of Ryan gathering his clothes and calling the cab service. He forgets to get dressed, and when Ryan reappears in the doorway, dressed, he feels awkwardly exposed.

  


"Well. . . bye." Ryan says, and he can't make eye contact. Then he turns around and walks out. Michael listens to his footsteps crossing the living room and the kitchen and the hall. And then the front door opens with a click and closes with another one and he stares at his reflection and he feels like an asshole.

  


He isn't a liar, though, and at least there's that. It's cold comfort for the world's lonliest man, the Great Michael Phelps, but it's all their is.

  
  



End file.
